Grieve For Me
by Karce
Summary: During a spring rain, a lone figure remains undetected observing Wayne Manor. After 3 years he's finally "home", but instead of happiness deep-seeded anger takes over. This broken young man seeks to heal, and only knows one way to do so, by destroying Batman, Robin and Nightwing and their guise of justice.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC Comics**

**Rated M for Jason Todd (you never know what that motherfucker is up to)  
**

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_**Prologue **_

A light drizzle of rain cascaded around the dimly lit architecture that was known as Wayne Manor. The sweet scent of spring rain flowed through the trees as an unidentified figure stalked awkwardly up towards the exit of the forest he'd been scavenging through for the past three hours, steadily keeping his gaze at the gaudy infrastructure. _Home. This place was my home once._

Keeping a trained eye focused straight ahead, he surveyed periodically making sure he was truly alone. _No cameras, no yard hands, just me and the other wet animals_, he mused while leaning back on a dampened tree trunk. His mouth instinctively ached for a cigarette, but he knew better than to even attempt to light the damned thing in the rain. It wasn't like he was addicted to the small hits of nicotine, oh no, he's always made sure he could control these types of habits, but the warm and moist air that was blanketing him made him all warm and goddamn _fuzzy_.

_Fuck. I'm supposed to be bathing in my emotional wallow, not be all tingly and shit. It feels like I just had the greatest fuck of my life. _Hard and callused hands moved behind him to gently stroke the large tree he was using for support, gently tracing his fingertips through the broken bark. Taking in a grand inhale, he held it in and refocused on his mission and purpose for making the unnecessarily long journey up to see the fortress. There were many other different routes that would have taken considerably less time to travel, but this was the only secure path he knew to directly view the manor without being detected. As a Robin he made many unsupervised trips to the inner city, and was promptly punished for every time. Being stubborn to regain some sense of the freedom he once had when living on the streets, he quickly made it his primary goal to find an escape route that _wouldn't_ end with a giant bat being furious or looking _disappointed._ Disappointment. Something he was a master of even before stepping foot in the manor.

A long exhale sent a flicker of peace through his body, relaxation soon taking hold. With years of perfecting his low-bit mediation attempts, it always drew a sense of accomplishment when he could actually feel his body submitting to a moment of emptiness. It would only last for that mere moment, anything longer would be a waste of time, but he did keep up with the method if he felt his body needed something new to focus on. And at this moment, he was trying to ignore the warm rain that was continuing to plummet his body and instead send a glare towards the faint light that was indicating some form of residence.

_Why didn't you avenge me Bruce? Was I truly that much of a disappointment for a partner that you chose to ignore your unspoken "parental" duties and end the life that took me away from you? On top of that, you turned right the hell around and picked up some other brat to take my place?_ A sickened sneer grew while fingers quickly dug into the bark that a moment ago was giving him comfort. Small droplets of blood from the numerous splinters that were being etched in his hand washed away with the rain as he continued to press his whitening hand against the wood. _I gave you 200% of my dedication. You were my teacher, my advisor, my fucking guardian. Sure I pressed my limits and all that shit teenagers do, but that doesn't mean I should get carted off and forgotten. I was your fucking soldier, and when your fucking soldier dies you avenge him. _

It took all his inner willpower to keep from screaming into the growing darkness, knowing that unneeded attention to the woods that edged around the manor would be quite unwelcome. A slew of silent curses passed through the young man's lips as he bent forward away from the tree, not wanting the sturdy support anymore. Taking one last look before heading back to his current dwelling, he whispered a very silent but still audible promise.

"I'm going to destroy you Bruce Wayne. You, and everyone affiliated with you guise of justice. See you in Hell, _Batman._"


	2. Bang

A leather-gloved hand reached into a deep cargo pants pocket firmly griping the much loved silver steeled Beretta 92 Italian pistol. It was one of the first 5,000 initially made in 1975, and features a comfortable grip that will empower the user with a style that grants some well deserved points in the bad-assary department. In a swift movent the owner gently pulled the gun from his pocket and brought it towards his chest, as if protecting the gun from unknown assailants. It had gotten a bit warmer since the past few weeks of the initial first visit to Wayne Manor, and thankfully less wet as well. With only the stars and the small glow of the thin crescent moon above him to shed light, this new self-proclaimed vigilante made his first steps towards the warehouse by the docks unnoticed. It had taken mere hours to infiltrate the communications between the local drug lords, and by damn lucky coincidence the vigilante had discovered a meeting was taking place tonight in hopes of discussing a truce between the rivaling gangs in the area. _Aww, ain't that sweet? Drug dealers and prostitute shovelers getting together for a nifty little conference. They think they can pretend to be human beings for an evening. _Gun cocked and ready, this motherfucker was finally prepared to make his first appearance to the scum of Gotham.

His first victim never saw it coming. One moment he was alive talking about how the whores in his district smell like sweet salt water taffy, and the next the back of his head was blown in rendering him nearly headless. The poor guy next to him had his neighbors blood splattered on his face, some even seeping into his mouth, as he screamed in horror at the sight before him. A millisecond later, the second shot echoed into the room snapping the others out of their shocked gaze. Before the second body hit the ground the rest of the participants at the table either ducked underneath the flimsy plastic in hopes of it being some makeshift protection, while the others drew their own weapons to combat the intruder. One screamed into their radio for backup, and when frustratingly getting no reply, decided to make a run for the exit.

The third victim was the first to see the vague red shine protruding from the darkness before a loud _bang_ brought him too towards the ground. Frantic bullets were displaced everywhere, some towards the exit while others towards the ceiling, their owners not fully aware yet of where the assault was coming from.

"What the fuck is going on here?! I swear to the fuckin' god that if I find out one of you double cro-" _Bang._ The other 6 crime lords quickly aimed their weapons at the direction of the bullet that tore through Ricky Rizzo's face and started shooting. The smell of ammunition and gun discharge turned the air thick with the heat of the guns causing the temperature to gradually rise with each uncoordinated fire. Fear and insane babble were plastered on some of the previous hard faced men, causing a soft chuckle to erupt through the lips behind the red hooded mask. He loved this. Abso-fucking loved this. The terror and excitement of finally administrating justice to those that had escaped the so-called "perfect" system of the law was healing. Sure he had killed others, many others, that deserved it but now that he had a identification other than, "a black haired punk kid with a gun" it felt even more thrilling. He would finally get power that spread beyond that of his guns, the power of a name. That was one training tip from Batman that he still kept to heart, a powerful name means a powerful presence. If you want to be feared it doesn't matter the type of weapons you carry. The true measure of power deepens down on how someone utters your name. He'd let one of these crying pussies live, but only so his name will spread to all corners of Gotham. He was going to take over this city, away from the fuckin' Bat, and actually instill justice for the people that his former mentor failed to do long ago.

_Bang. Bang. _As two more bloody bodies fell from his bullets, the remaining four continued to look like trapped rats in a cobra's cage. Becoming bored and slightly annoyed at the screams and yells bestowing on his prey the red-masked man quickly touched the control pad at the back of his hood to soundproof and drown out the pointless chatter that was giving him a headache. He sat poised, simply watching in silence as the gunmen shoot at all directions – noting when the fires were coming just too close.

Five full minutes passed allowing the four to mistakenly think they had finally dispelled their assailant to the world beyond, giving them a false sense of security. The silent observer from a high rafter could have listened in on their conversation, but frankly he didn't care. This was all a part of his game, give the rats a time to rest so once he decides to play again they'll be at peak energy. Once he noticed one gunman grabbing a cell phone from his pocket, he knew break time was over.

_Bang._ The looks on the remaining three faces would have been enough to fill the sadistic pleasure the young man was feeling right now, but then he noticed one actually _pissed_ his pants. One quick swipe at the hoods' control panel allowed sound to once again fill the enclosed dome and he was instantly greeted with intense sobs courtesy of Mr. Pissy Pants. _Well, I guess I discovered who I'll let walk out of here. _

_Bang. Bang. _Two more quick shots erupted through the room leaving the pissed soaked dealer and the stranger the only ones alive. The red-masked man watched as the other sank towards his knees, enclosing his tearful eyes in his hands gasping at words that only vaguely resemble the English language. The gun he held which had been out of bullets for a while now, dropped from the dealers' hand as he continued to beg. If the broken man had been paying attention, he'd have noticed the heavy steps of boots hitting concrete and the distinct click of the owners gun as he slid another bullet into the chamber. It wasn't until he was standing directly over him did the fallen man notice the black leather boots that had been stilled right in front of him. In shock he jumped backwards, practically falling on top of a still warm body.

"Th-the Devil," he gasped while setting his eyes on the blood-red hood of his opponent. White glass-like eyes peered back at him, unmoved and a bit uninterested.

"Close, but no cigar." The roughened and deep voice of the red-hooded stranger replied, with a tiny hint of amusement. "Unfortunately I don't have the abilities to grow cloven hoofs or a forked tail yet. Plus, the whole corrupting the innocence thing isn't really my idea of a fun time. I _much_ rather play with the already corrupted." Under the hood a smile briskly crept on the man's face, enjoying the pleasure of being in charge. The man once again flinched back as the figure continued to approach him, silver gun still in plain view.

"Please, whoever you are just do it fast, don't make me suffer!" An angry gloved hand clasped around the man's neck, slamming his head backwards into the hard ground.

"Why don't you deserve to suffer?" The hooded man asked, voice sharp as a knife. "You're Johnny Blaze. Good ol' Johnny Blaze in charge of the prostitution house on Westpoint. It's a known fact you drug these girls, get them addicted to heroin so they have to exchange sex for more drugs. And when they want to leave you beat them till they're bloodied or dead, suffocating on a floor of an infested alley so the last thing they see is the rotting corpse of some forgotten hobo. They suffered, hadn't they? And you think you don't deserve to share their fate. No, certainly not good ol' Johnny _fucking_ Blaze." With his free hand the hooded man jammed his pistol inside of the mouth of the blubbering man, finally quieting the room from his intense sobs.

"Unfortunately for me, Johnny fuckin' Blaze, tonight you don't deserve the honor of being the 10th dead on this warehouse ground. No, I'm being extremely generous. All you have to do to get my gun out of your mouth is to use that brain of yours and recognize that I'm in charge here. I'm taking over your territory, all these bastards territories, everything. It's all mine. _Capiche_?" The lone dealer nodded as best he could with the gun still in his mouth, making him choke a bit as the masked man seemed to jam it inside once more before taking it out. Before stepping away from him, the gunman carefully wiped the saliva that had disgustingly covered his gun on the fallen man's clothes. Satisfied once it was drool-free, he allowed the other man to get up.

"My name is the Red Hood." The masked man said. "I want you to tell everyone what happened tonight, and I mean everything. Extra detail on the part of you pissing yourself," he smirked. "Friday night all those next in line to take over the divisions, including yours, will meet me at the old salt factory in Southampton at 11. Anyone who opposes my reign will be dealt with similarly to those who I took care of tonight. I'll know if it's a trap, so I advise against that. All dealings and associations with anyone under the age of 18 will stop by tomorrow, or there will be a bullet for each of you by then. Think you can remember all that Johnny Blaze?" Johnny clenched his jaw nervously and nodded in response. Figuring that an auditory answer would not be given, Red Hood shrugged his shoulders before waving him off. "Just remember, if my message is altered in _any_ way there will be more then one bullet in your future. Gun shots don't have to _kill,_ at least not right away." The sobbing man glanced back only once while he sprinted his way out of the warehouse.

Johnny Blaze did what he was told that night and soon the streets were muttering rumors about the _Red Hood_ in all directions. Some thought it was a cover up for some intense take-over orchestrated by Johnny Blaze himself, while others thought it was just an insane rumor that held no credibility. After all, how could 9 of the 10 drug lords be snuffed out in one night? There were supposed to be a hundred guards posted around the perimeter that night, constantly surveying for any hints of rivalry violence. Once the police got involved and found the bodies of the dead leaders, those rumors however were quickly put out. Inner chaos erupted in each gang, fighting over who would be the next chain of command, and there were instantly more bodies in need of bags.

Johnny Blaze would never live to Friday night. Police reports say that he was found in the alleyway behind his business with a slit throat, and multiple gunshot wounds scattered between his arms, legs, and abdomen. There are currently no suspects.

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**If you liked the story so far please review! I love reading opinions/criticisms to help me become a better writer (and it helps motivate me to write quicker). The next chapter should be a bit longer and will introduce Bruce, Dick, and Tim.**


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